


(Walk Away) Catch Up With the Sunrise

by devils_trap



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Miscommunication, but deviates a little? i dunno, but for a while both of them will bemoan their existences, eventually heads will be pulled from asses, have a lot of 'meaningless' sex and try to keep strings from attaching, takes place after alpha pack/in their junior year, woohoo not talking about what they want from each other and getting hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted to matter. To have someone see him, and when they saw him still stick around, kiss him, enjoy his company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Landfill" by Daughter. Prompt from some musing I did on [Tumblr](http://devils-trap.tumblr.com/post/51703243287/like-like-i-want-him-and-derek-to-fool-around-and).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No strings,” Derek proposed, and he stepped towards Stiles. The light in his eyes made them shine, made them close to manic. He looked ready to eat Stiles up, every bit the Big Bad Wolf young children were warned of.

When thinking about what his first time would be like, Stiles expected a few things.

A bed, for one, with soft, clean sheets against his back, while the object of his desires writhed on top of him. Or maybe the sheets would brush up against his knees from where they sat on either side of his partner’s torso, Stiles grinding his hips down into the warm body beneath him, their hands on his hips holding him there, biting deliciously into his skin. It wasn’t that he _needed_ a bed, or even that he would only have sex on one—oh, no, he had plans for tables, for shower walls, for the backseat of his Jeep, _hello_ —but it was a classic, and a great foundation to build a healthy, thriving sex-life on.

Gentleness was another thing Stiles expected, especially for his first time. It wasn’t that the thought of being manhandled or knocked around while getting freaky with someone turned him off—Stiles was no stranger to the darker side of the internet, or the heat that churned brightly in his gut while he beat off to it—but, again, it was kind of like the bed deal: a foundation to build off. Start out polite and learn your partner’s body. Kiss it, worship it, caress it. Find out what they liked and what you liked in turn before you added anything else to it.

Stiles was fully on board for trying things out. He’d actually constructed a list in preparation for The Great Sex Talk: Boning on Common Ground™. Asphyxiation, handcuffs, spanking, nipple clamps, pegging if he ended up with a girl—Stiles wanted to try them all out, but in good time. There shouldn’t be a rush when it came to sex, things should flow naturally.

Stiles wanted to master the comfortable, the vanilla, the basics before he started for the deep end. He wanted to first make sure he was good to go with condoms, with lube, with going down on a girl or blowing a guy, with getting his dick into a waiting hole without shooting his load too early, before he got too far ahead of himself.

Another thing he expected was to be face-to-face with his partner. It wasn’t that he wanted to look into their fucking eyes or anything like that, except for how it totally was. He wanted to see everything flit across his partner’s face, from pleasure to what they looked like when they didn’t really like something and didn’t quite know how to tell him. He wanted to see it _all,_ all of those emotions he caused, his body caused.

Call him cheesy, call him fucking corny, whatever. But something inside of him was obsessed with the thought of coming while looking into his partner’s eyes, with being able to see all _he_ , Stiles Stilinski, had done to someone else.

He expected _feelings_ of some sort, though he wouldn’t actively mention that part in the light of day for fear of being mocked. But the thought of it was nice, having sex and enjoying himself with another person who cared for him and who he cared for in return. Being able to laugh off the awkwardness and embrace another person’s body as they embraced his, each person appreciative of all the things the other brought to the table. Both seeking to gain pleasure but also to _give_ pleasure, to teach and be taught. Both forgiving of minor blunders, and endeavoring to find creative ways to fix them.

It all struck a cord within him, and made him hunger for that kind of connection with another person that much more. Stiles’ current relationships left him wanting, left him sad that everyone else seemed to have found someone while he, Stiles Stilinski, eighteen-year-old virgin spark extraordinaire, lived out the remainder of the home-stretch of his junior year alone. In things enough to be mostly included, but still too much on the cusp of it all to _feel_ included. Like he was an afterthought in it all, a plus one instead of the person directly getting the invitation.

Stiles hadn’t felt like he belonged in such a long time, but that was a whole different matter entirely.

Stiles wasn’t naïve enough to believe sex equated with feelings and relationships, but it would be nice, coupling them together. Sex could just be sex, and Stiles didn’t begrudge people their enjoyment of hungry, sweaty bodies moving together, a short-term goal in mind, but no long-term goal in sight.

But he _wanted_ to have sex with someone he cared about, and have sex with them frequently. He wanted to wake up curled around another person, limbs intertwined and skin damp from contact. He wanted slow, sleepy Sunday morning sex, morning breath and all. The kind you got up from afterwards feeling loose-limbed and sated and hungry, so together you wander into the kitchen. And everything would be quiet, except for the drip of the coffee machine, the padding of bare feet, the sizzle of breakfast foods, and the occasional kiss or gentle touch you shyly share.

He wanted to matter. To have someone _see him_ , and when they saw him still stick around, kiss him, enjoy his company.

-

Stiles’ first time was nothing like he had expected it to be.

Stiles’ first time was messy and fast and brutal. Stiles’ first time was Stiles on all floors, his head pillowed on his arms, with Derek plastered to his back, like if he tried hard enough he could become a part of Stiles. His hips were merciless and only partly in the good way, ripping moans from Stiles’ throat that were born both of pleasure and pain. Stiles couldn’t control the way they fell from his mouth, how they sounded both fucked-out and fucked-up at the same time. There were tears in Stiles’ eyes, and he couldn’t quite remember when those had got there, and if they were because his body felt like a livewire, or if he was just overwhelmed by this: this almost detached animalistic rutting on the cold floor in place of the slow, gentle, _loving_ sex he had always envisioned.

Derek had asked if he was hurting him, once, with his teeth in Stiles’ neck and his fingers three deep in Stiles’ ass, after they had just rolled off Derek’s bed. His voice during sex was lower than Stiles had ever heard it, but it was still phrased things like a statement, not a question. Words strung up in the barest of means, not meaning enough to warrant proper punctuation nor inflection.

He hadn’t been sure if Derek was genuinely worried that he had hurt Stiles, or if it was a test of some sort. To see if Stiles could hold his own, could be the adult Stiles so persistently tried to be. He doubted it was the former, based on their track record of brusqueness.

All Stiles knew was that, despite this being nothing like he had naively expected his first time to be, he didn’t want it to stop.

So Stiles hadn’t answered, just thrust himself back on Derek’s fingers for more, wantonly parting his legs as far as he could, his back bowed that much more.

Derek hadn’t asked again. Hadn’t said anything else either, really.

Their fucking sent Stiles sliding back and forth on the finished concrete in Derek’s loft, the skin of his knees an angry, blood-filled red, just a few more passes from being ripped open from the friction. There had been a blanket underneath him originally that had tumbled when they did, but it got away from him sometime after Derek had pushed inside of him. Stiles thought it was somewhere to his left, but he hadn’t opened his eyes in a long while, and when he had managed to get back up onto his hands, he had been unable to find it. It was too dark for him to see in the room, anyway.

After Derek groaned his release, his body practically vibrating on top of Stiles’, he reached his hand around and gave Stiles the sloppiest reach-around known to man. Stiles’ body had attempted to curl up on itself from all of the stimulation by the time he came all over the floor, his asshole spasming around Derek’s softening dick.

The squelches their bodies made when they pulled apart where deafening now that their heavy breathing was no longer covering it up. Stiles felt suddenly younger than his eighteen years and incredibly foolish. Strangely sad and disappointed, too. Whether in himself, in Derek, or in sex in general, Stiles couldn’t ascertain. He just knew he suddenly felt small and disillusioned, and that he probably wouldn’t sleep well tonight. He felt like one of those girls in the movies who had sex with someone they really liked to try and gauge if they were liked back. The ones who would later learn that, no, they couldn’t fuck a guy into feeling affection for them, and all they really were to these guys were holes waiting to be filled, warm, pliable bodies and soft, wet mouths.

Not that Stiles _wanted_ Derek to be something, even with the weird crush Stiles harbored for the guy. After Lydia, Stiles took a long, hard look at himself and figured out where all he had gone wrong with pursuing her—see: practically the entire thing—and had vowed to: one, never chase someone who obviously didn’t want to be chased, two, to romantically play in his own realm, and, three, not to invest himself in someone who obviously didn’t give a shit.

Derek seemed alright with fucking him, but they hadn’t even so much as kissed during the entire, confusing ordeal. He had hardly _said_ anything, either, spare the occasional “fuck” and the one time he had asked if Stiles was hurt. This was obviously just sex to him, and there Stiles was, attaching emotions to it however subconsciously and still getting burnt.

He probably meant nothing to Derek.

Stiles Stilinski: now good enough to fuck, but still not good enough for anything else.

Stiles dabbed briskly at the corners of his eyes with the jut of his wrist, and prayed to any God that would listen that Derek didn’t see. Vowed to himself then and there that, despite already breaking two of his vows, he wouldn’t break the first one.

“I’m gonna shower,” Derek said from somewhere behind Stiles. He walked barefoot toward the door of the room and paused in its entranceway. The light from the rest of the building casted him in darkness, and all Stiles could make out of him was the damp strands of his hair pointing every which way, and the soft curve of his now limp dick, sitting still where it rested and slightly protruded from a thatch of dark hair between Derek’s muscular thighs. He seemed to open his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it. His mouth closed with an audible click. Without another word, he disappeared.

Just as wordlessly, Stiles climbed to his feet. Sometime during the end of it, the skin on Stiles’ knees had indeed ripped open. Already drying blood was smeared across his blotchy shins, the bottoms of his thighs. Movement tugged on the already forming scabs, causing fresh blood to dribble down. A single bead of it ran from Stiles’ left kneecap all the way down to his big toe. For some reason that sent Stiles into hysterics, and he laughed until new tears welled up in his eyes, body bent over with his arms wrapped around his abdomen. He got so lightheaded with it that he had to sit down on Derek’s bed to keep himself from swaying, uncaring of the lube and semen that steadily escaped him and bled onto Derek’s sheets.

He didn’t want to know what it sounded like to Derek’s ears.

He got dressed listening to the water clang through the loft’s piping, and thought about the conversation that had led to them to fucking in the first place. He had come over to yell at Derek for keeping something from him and Scott, something that Stiles couldn’t remember now for the life of him. Pieces of it came to him with each article of clothing he dragged on, like how it had put their lives in danger, again, before Derek had taken it out and fucking _texted them_ an all-clear. The split lip Stiles had almost forgot about in lieu of the burn in his knees and the now thunderous throbbing in his ass suddenly made itself known, and he absently worried at it while tying his shoes.

It had seemed so important when Stiles had driven across town, gripping his steering wheel like it could keep him from flying off the handle. He had been so _angry_ , and privately hurt that, again, Derek was keeping stuff from them. As if keeping the Alpha Pack from them hadn’t been enough, Derek was keeping more things from them, even after all of that hard work Stiles had put into fixing whatever had happened between Derek and Scott. Even after showing how trustworthy he, they could be. How valuable, even though they weren’t going to be a part of his pack.

But, of course, Stiles, ever the outlier, hadn’t been allowed in. Still putting emotions into spaces they shouldn’t be.

He still couldn’t remember how exactly it had led to them fucking. It probably had something to do with the way Derek had already been mostly naked when Stiles had found him, and the way Derek’s nostrils had flared when he smelt Stiles’ anger and hurt morph into arousal.

The blood from his knees made the front of his jeans stick to his skin, and every step he took pulled at the wound. It would probably scar. “More clothes ruined by blood,” he whispered to himself, and he laughed again. It sounded manic even to his own ears, echoing in the openness of Derek’s loft, reverberating off the high ceilings and all of the sparse furnishings, off Derek’s disinterest and the hollowness in Stiles’ chest.

“I’m gonna…head out. Yeah, I’m—thanks for—uh, I’ll see you around?” Stiles called in the direction he heard the water coming from. He couldn’t hear Derek’s answer, but he assumed Derek had given him an affirmative. The keys in Stiles’ fists bit into his palm as he nodded to himself and began the trek to his Jeep.

If it felt like the Walk of Shame, well.

-

Stiles didn’t see Derek for nearly another two weeks, and he couldn’t tell whether that made him feel upset or relieved.

In the end, Derek pulled him aside near the kitchenette in his loft after a werewolf meeting—since Scott refused to have it called a Pack Meeting because they weren’t a Pack, and refused to go without Stiles, who had already turned down the one last week—and asked him to hang by a minute. Scott shot them a questioning look, but when Stiles shrugged his shoulders and assured him it was just about research, Scott let it drop until another time.

The front door clicked closed behind Isaac, and Derek held his breath for nearly a minute before turning to Stiles and just looking at him.

His silence weirded Stiles out, and he fidgeted in the soft yellow light coming from one of Derek’s thrift shop lamps. “Yeah?” Stiles asked, and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Derek considered him for a few more moments, his face even more bunched up than usual. “You left,” he said.

“When?” After whatever the fuck that was two weeks ago?

“That night,” Derek added, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “And you two weren’t here last week.”

Stiles blinked a few times at him. Something was bubbling in his stomach and he wondered if it was more hysterical laughter. “Wasn’t I…supposed to?” he asked, and Derek scowled more at him, like Stiles had answered wrong. Stiles clenched his fists and stood up straight. “I wasn’t under the impression that I was to hang around,” Stiles snapped. “I mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” Derek barked, though it was anything but. His eyebrows were a long, angry downturned line. “It’s better this way.”

“Better _what way_?” Stiles threw his hands up. “I was unaware that there was another way to be! I was unaware that there was something to begin with!”

“No strings,” Derek proposed, and he stepped towards Stiles. The light in his eyes made them shine, made them close to manic. He looked ready to eat Stiles up, every bit the Big Bad Wolf young children were warned of.  “We do…this…this _thing_. Whatever you wanna call it: fucking, relieving stress. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. We both get something we want. You want my body,” Derek said, and his face minutely curled with something if Stiles was pressed to name, he’d call disgust. If he hadn’t been unable to look away from Derek’s face, he would’ve missed it.

“And you want…me?” Blood smarted in his cheeks, made his skin tingle. Maybe he had read this wrong. Derek was stiff when it came to other people, maybe he didn’t quite know how to put himself out there like that. Maybe—

“I want to fuck you,” Derek corrected, and he squared his shoulders, eyes on Stiles critical. Despite them both being of a height, Stiles felt small again under Derek’s bulk.

“Oh,” he said quietly, “oh.”

Derek took that for acceptance and nodded once. The maroon henley he wore, one of Stiles’ favorites, was then hastily torn off and thrown over Derek’s shoulder. “You got somewhere to be?” he asked, and his voice was low again, like before.

Stiles opened his mouth, ready to tell Derek this wasn’t what he wanted, that the first time had been fun, really, but it had been a one-time deal. But faced with the lack of other contestants bidding for Stiles romantic and/or sexual affections, Stiles decided against it. He could do this. He could fuck Derek and learn to separate whatever the fuck he felt for the guy, from what they were doing. Sex with Derek would be just sex with Derek, and Stiles wouldn’t make any more of it. He could use this as a learning experience. Improve his ability in the bedroom for someone who actually wanted the entire package.

Stiles shook his head and removed his shirt, preening a little in the way Derek hungrily took in Stiles’ chest, the definition Stiles had gained over the last year from actually getting to _play_ lacrosse, and from running for his life.

Derek stalked toward him like an animal, narrow hips swinging obscenely as he backed Stiles up into the cabinets. He helped Stiles up and onto them. Leaned in close between Stiles’ thighs, his growing jean-covered erection brushing against Stiles’ own. Derek smelled like leather, like aftershave, like darkness in the forest. He nipped at Stiles’ ear and grabbed him by the hips to pull them flush together, his bare chest against Stiles’ own.

“Just fucking,” Derek whispered, and he kissed his way from Stiles’ ear to Stiles’ mouth.

It wasn’t Stiles’ first kiss, but among the first five, and he whined into it, his teeth clanking with Derek’s before Derek forcibly turned Stiles’ head to a better angle.

Derek tasted like the protein shakes he liked to throw back, like the mint gum Isaac had offered everyone at the beginning of the meeting, like Stiles’ undoing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But all the same, it made Stiles’ stomach whirl when Derek would ask him over after school, let Stiles’ rummage around through his sparsely stocked fridge until he found something to finagle for them both, Derek’s nose beneath Stiles’ ear, his arms around Stiles’ waist. They’d talk about their days and eat as quickly as possible before reconvening on Derek’s bed to kiss and peel each other’s clothes off. The sex they’d have then would be less rough than usual, less rushed. Stiles would ride Derek until his thighs cramped, and then Derek would flip them, smiling into Stiles’ neck as Stiles laughed and moaned.

After that, they fucked like bunnies whenever they were alone. Sometimes, they barely even waited that long before clothes were coming off and Stiles was yanked into Derek’s lap, or pushed up against something. Once, memorably, Scott hadn’t even completely descended the stairs in Stiles’ house on his way out before Derek had laid back on Stiles’ bed and pulled him down on top. Derek smirked into his neck and recited everything Scott said while Stiles bit back laughter.

The sex was still rough and fast, but Stiles got into the swing of things pretty quickly. Who needed slow and sweet when they could have Derek Hale fucking the daylights of out them? Stiles sure didn’t! A favorite position of Stiles’ was Derek’s chest to his back, his fist threaded in his hair, yanking his neck back. Like the first time, but with less bleeding knees and more hair pulling. And kissing. Lots of kissing. Kissing Derek was an event all its own. Derek kissed like he wanted to consume you, and used every part of his body possible in those attempts.

If Stiles sometimes woke up in his bed alone, dick hard and straining against his boxers, because he’d dreamed of having slow, gentle Sunday morning sex with Derek, well. Stiles would rub one out and get on with his day, ignoring the dream until it reappeared some other night. He was having plenty of sex with Derek already, and by some miracle Stiles had managed to keep most of his emotions about it in check. He didn’t need dreams of Derek smiling into Stiles’ skin, holding him close and dragging sex out with sinuous rolls of his hips until Stiles wanted to cry, attaching strings where they weren’t welcome.

Most of the time Stiles could convince himself that there were no strings, none at all, but at times it felt particularly stringy. And it scared the hell out him.

They never stayed over at each other’s places, and there was no cuddling unless you count basking in the afterglow side-by-side, fingers and legs linked. They didn’t talk about what they were doing after the first time, and whenever it was brought up when the others were around, they managed to tip-toe around it with little half-truths like, “Yeah, we’re seeing a lot of each other.” None of the others seemed to buy it, especially not Scott, who would watch them with narrowed eyes when they sat a little too close or brushed against each other for no reason, but they eventually stopped pressing it.

Scott, though, ever faithful Scott. Scott had cornered him about a week after Derek and Stiles had decided on their whole friends with benefits deal, before they had admitted to “seeing a lot of each other.” Literally cornered in this case, with Stiles backed up between rows of lockers in the boy’s locker room, bare chested with his lacrosse jersey squished to his chest.

“Are you two dating?” Scott had asked as he took in all of the fading marks on Stiles’ neck, his shoulders, his hips. His face had scrunched up like he couldn’t quite understand why anyone would want to do anything with Derek. Scott and Derek would never be on the best of terms, not with Derek’s penchant for withholding information and the axe Scott had to grind over his lycanthropy, so maybe it just didn’t register why someone would willing enter into a _thing_ with Derek Hale. After becoming a true Alpha in his own right, things between Scott and Derek had eased a little, but still: withholding information, meet axe to grind. Privately, it made Stiles think of brothers fighting. Derek would probably love that, but Stiles had said that to Scott once and got the hairy eye for an entire day. “You guys are awfully buddy-buddy. You smell like him now all the time, and Isaac and Boyd said you’re always at the loft.”

“Buddy-buddy? My buddy, there’s no buddying here, okay,” Stiles had said. He had searched around the locker room for someone to get him away from Scott, but Scott had timed this well. No one else was around. Scott sometimes got flack for being a little slow on the uptake, but Stiles mused that was a front to keep people underestimating him so that later, Scott could turn around and kick their ass with just how intelligent and clever he was. And devious, had Stiles mentioned devious? “We’re just…having fun?”

“Stiles,” chided Scott, and he shook his head a little. “You know he’s gonna hurt you in the end, right? I mean, he’s a lot older than us and it’s… _Derek_.” He had said Derek’s name like the thought alone of doing something like that with him was scandalous, eyes big for effect.

“Why is he gonna hurt _me?_ Maybe I’m gonna hurt him! Why do you assume I’m gonna get invested?” Stiles had thrown his hands into the air and waved his jersey in frustration. “This is totally no strings attached fun, okay. No emotions. Nada. Just boners. And sexytime.” Stiles had hoped that by being crude and wriggling his eyebrows that Scott would get a mental image of him with Derek together, hopefully in flagrante, and drop it like the hot potato Stiles intended it to be.

No dice. If anything, Scott seemed to understand what Stiles was trying to do. The look Scott had given him then was piteous, and Stiles bit down hard on his cheek to keep from saying something hateful. Stiles hated when Scott was sneakily perceptive. “Just be careful, okay? Like I need another reason to dislike Derek Hale.”

But all the same, it made Stiles’ stomach whirl when Derek would ask him over after school, let Stiles’ rummage around through his sparsely stocked fridge until he found something to finagle for them both, Derek’s nose beneath Stiles’ ear, his arms around Stiles’ waist. They’d talk about their days and eat as quickly as possible before reconvening on Derek’s bed to kiss and peel each other’s clothes off. The sex they’d have then would be less rough than usual, less rushed. Stiles would ride Derek until his thighs cramped, and then Derek would flip them, smiling into Stiles’ neck as Stiles laughed and moaned.

See? Stringy.

The next few days, the sex would be rougher, and they’d almost always have sex facing different directions. Derek would be a little more distant as well, shoulders tense and mouth drawn in a tighter line. It was like Derek was trying to detach any invisible strings that had managed to sneak their way into whatever _this_ was, cut them loose with the glare in his eyes and the hardness of his jaw.

It didn’t stop them from doing it again, and again, though. It was difficult to parse through, and often made Stiles feel at a loss, the flip-flopping of the way Derek acted toward him. The difference between Derek during those two types of encounters was stark, like night and day. Relaxed, gentler Derek made jokes, trailed his fingertips across the nape of Stiles’ neck. Looked like he sometimes wanted to keep Stiles in his bed forever, keep that ruddy flush snaking through his entire body until Stiles had no more blood to contribute to it. The rougher, more distant Derek kept Stiles at arms’ length while at the same time savagely trying to climb inside of him, like he couldn’t quite understand what he wanted and how to get it, so he took his frustrations out on Stiles himself.

Stiles couldn’t help but feel their relationship was getting even stringier, like some grade school kid’s art project, and he didn’t know whether to feel relieved that something between them was forming, justifying this crush it was getting harder and harder to keep at bay, or horrified that he was getting in too deep and misreading things like he was wont to do.

Derek’s smell was everywhere, though. On Stiles’ clothes, on Stiles’ bed sheets, in Stiles’ Jeep. Stiles felt like he was drowning in it. Sometimes at night Stiles actively wished for a life-raft.

-

There was a girl at school in their year named Violet Josephs that had taken an interest in Stiles around late April. Stiles had never seen her before, not really, but going straight from a years-long infatuation with Lydia into whatever this _thing_ was with Derek would do that to a guy. According to a few people, she had moved to Beacon Hills over a year ago and had integrated seamlessly, and quietly. She was pretty in an ordinary kind of way, with soft brown hair in a short bob framing her face, big green eyes, and a birthmark the size of a nickel in the shape of a heart at the base of her throat. She liked to wear floral patterned dresses with little cardigans on top, a set of tights and a pair of Mary Jane’s to finish up the outfit. She was barely taller than Lydia and petite, with bird bone wrists and sharp hips. Between her collarbones sat a tiny, gold-encased opal, that Stiles never saw her without, and her ears were pierced all up and down the sides.

And she was unabashedly _into him_. She’d talk to him in the halls and in the lunchroom, touching at her neck and the ends of her hair while fluttering her lashes at him. She had a pretty mouth and the softest voice Stiles had ever heard, with an accent Stiles couldn’t place with any more certainty than _East_. He could imagine her moaning softly and laughing with him, could picture her head thrown back with a smile on her face as her thighs quivered around his face.

She gave him her number one day on an index card, her name and number in gel pen with little doodles surrounding it. She was actually pretty talented, and as it turned out like a lot of the same videogames and cartoons that Stiles did, judging from her artwork. Stiles kept the card folded up in his pocket for a week and thumbed one of its corners until it began to go soft.

If she had gotten to him before Derek had, Stiles would probably be dating her.

They don’t talk about Violet around Derek.

The first and only time Isaac and Boyd had teased him about it in Derek’s company, he had broken the wooden spoon he had been using to stir alfredo sauce clean in half. The half not in his hand floated pitifully in the off-white, bubbling sauce. Stiles didn’t need werewolf senses to see how tense Derek’s shoulders had become, nor to see the unhappiness that rolled off of him in droves. He’d have been lying if he were to say that Derek’s reaction to hearing about someone else wanting Stiles didn’t thrill him.

Isaac and Boyd beat feet silently, Boyd’s jaw clamped and Isaac’s big eyes impossibly larger. Stiles didn’t see them go, was unable to look away from Derek, but the soft click of the front door gave their retreat away. He swallowed hard, feeling every bit the lamb in the lion’s den.

“I…” Stiles whispered, feeling thrilled about Derek’s reaction but at the same time a little nauseated. He didn’t know what to say. Was there a protocol to follow when your supposed friends with benefits arrangement was threatened by someone who actually wanted a romantic relationship with one of the involved parties?

“Do you want to fuck this girl?” Derek asked, back still to Stiles.

“She’s a nice girl and all, but—”

“Do you want to fuck this girl, Stiles, answer the question.” The space between them was suddenly bridged, and Derek’s face was thunderous from where it stood inches away from Stiles’ own. His kaleidoscope eyes were oddly vulnerable and he breathed hard.

“I’m fucking _you_ ,” Stiles answered, and it seemed at once both the right and wrong answer. Derek closed his eyes and hummed brokenly in his throat before pressing himself to Stiles.

The alfredo sauce burned.

They don’t talk about Violet around Derek.

-

Things were much the same entering into the summer months. Stiles was a rising senior with an older fuck buddy and strings attaching themselves to him whenever Stiles wasn’t looking. Sex yo-yoed somewhere between pleasantly rough on good days, and brutal on others. They didn’t talk about Violet.

Stiles thought they were doing…not well, but something close to it. Good enough, considering what they were doing and what they were dancing around.

They hadn’t set a time schedule for when they’d meet for sex, but there were a few times that they tended to favor: after school on Thursdays and Fridays, after Werewolf Meetings whenever they had them, and late at night, usually when they’d gone days without seeing each other. Being summertime, Stiles no longer had to work Derek in around his school hours, and for a while there he would go over to the loft around three and they’d pick up where they’d left off. They’d eat something fast, have enjoyable sex with more laughing and smiling than usual, Stiles would be home in time for dinner, and the next time he saw Derek, they’d be back to square one: merciless fucking back to chest.

It had been a few days and their cycle was due to reset itself again. Despite it being closer to six than three, Stiles headed over to the loft, this time with take-out. It struck Stiles as something someone would do if they were in a relationship, and Stiles debated on throwing out the take-out and just heading over there without it several times. In the end, Stiles decided that he had already paid for it, and they were going to make food regardless, so where was the harm?

If the opening of the white paper bag it sat in was crunched all to hell from Stiles taking his nerves out on it, oh well.

The door to Derek’s loft was unlocked, and Stiles let himself quietly in. He made his way into the kitchenette and sat the take-out down. Derek normally would have met him by then, but Stiles heard the shower running and figured he’d be in there. To pass the time, Stiles set about dishing out the food.

Stiles didn’t hear Derek approaching, too focused on evenly dividing the food and humming to himself, and he startled when Derek touched his shoulder. “Woah, you’re awfully dressy today,” Stiles said, and with a few blinks took in Derek’s clean shaven face, the pressed crispness of his navy button-up. His jeans looked _ironed_ and instead of his usual sneakers, Derek had on dress shoes.

Stiles was getting a bad feeling.

“Stiles…” Derek mumbled. He rubbed at his face, not making eye contact.

“Oh. You, uh, have plans.” Plans without Stiles. Stiles licked his lips and nodded his head. Concentrated on not freaking out in front of Derek. “I’ll, uh...get out of your hair, then.”

“Stiles—” Derek reached forward for Stiles, and frowned when Stiles evaded the touch.

“You don’t have to explain, y’know,” Stiles said, edging around Derek to get to the door. He was even wearing cologne, Christ. Stiles felt a little nauseated. Strings had definitely attached, and Stiles was paying the price. “We had a fun run. Time for greener pastures. I’ll, uh, see you around.”

“Stiles—”

“No need, no need. No strings, remember. Nooo strings. I’m just gonna—go. Keep—or don’t keep—the take-out. I’ll see you around.” He managed to make his way around Derek and get his back to him before his vision blurred. No tears fall, but Stiles was sure Derek could smell them.

“It’s better this way,” Derek called, like he hadn’t said that before, when all of this started. _It’s better this way_. Stiles should have kept himself and his strings firmly away from Derek Hale. What had he been thinking, no strings attached? Stiles had a hard time doing most things without attaching strings, let alone getting sexually involved with a man he had weird, confusing feelings for _before_ they started fucking around. “Stiles, I’m—”

“It’s okay, Derek, really. Have a nice time.” He waved over his shoulder and offered Derek a smile he couldn’t see. Derek has the courtesy not to mention Stiles’ hasty scrambling for the doorknob upon his exit.

Stiles managed to keep the tears firmly held back through his final Walk of Shame from Derek’s loft, though he almost lost it when he passed who he presumed was Derek’s date in the hall. She was beautiful, tall and leggy with full, black hair like the night. She smiled at him as she passed. Of course.

Inside the Jeep, though, he cried a little, enough to appease his traitorous heart before he viciously rubbed his eyes dry.


End file.
